Postmark Murder

Postmark Murder by Mignon G. Eberhart Read Free Book Online Page B

Book: Postmark Murder by Mignon G. Eberhart Read Free Book Online
Authors: Mignon G. Eberhart
real and terrible significance of those moments in the house at Koska Street. She left Jonny in the kitchen, closing the door so the child could not hear, and went to the telephone. This time when she dialed Matt’s hotel apartment he answered.
    “Matt! Oh Matt, he’s dead!”
    “Laura, for God’s sake, who’s dead?”
    “He was murdered. I saw him—”
    “Who?”
    “Conrad Stanislowski.”
    “Conrad— What on earth are you talking about?”
    “Matt, he came here. This afternoon. Just after you left. He came to see Jonny. And then a woman phoned—” The story poured out like a flood, short as words could make it, long enough to cover the span of a man’s life. Halfway through, Matt cried, “Laura, take it easy! Say that again. Where did he go? Who phoned you?”
    She told him again, and then couldn’t stop herself repeating until Matt said suddenly and sharply, “Okay, I’ve got it. You are sure he was dead?”
    “I saw him. I felt his pulse. He was murdered. He couldn’t have killed himself—not like that—”
    “What’s the address again? All right, I’ve got it. I’ll see to things. Wait till I come.”

SIX
    S HE PUT DOWN THE telephone. The terrible, invisible burden slipped for a moment from her own shoulders.
    There was a mirror above the small table where the telephone stood, and she had a swift glimpse of herself in it—her short brown hair rumpled, her gray eyes brilliant, her mouth, lipsticked with crimson, looking very red and tense against the whiteness of her face. Her white silk blouse was wrinkled. The tiny string of pearls Conrad had given her on her eighteenth birthday gleamed softly in the light.
    She gave Jonny supper; she fed the kitten. She read aloud from Jonny’s favorite book—her favorite probably because it was profusely illustrated with pictures that perhaps made the story, in English, reasonably clear to Jonny. Still Matt did not telephone. It was Jonny’s bedtime.
    Jonny was efficient and self-reliant in all the little chores of tooth-brushing and nail-scrubbing and dressing; there was something oddly pathetic in the matter-of-fact way she set about the nightly routine, for obviously she had been trained to do all those things for herself at a very early age. She had her bath, she got herself into her pajamas, she brushed and braided her hair, she got herself briskly into bed. The kitten, worn out with chasing a crumpled piece of cellophane around the room, curled himself up on Jonny’s shoulder, his eyes as blue as Jonny’s and as sleepy. Jonny’s black eyelashes were drooping when Laura turned out the light.
    Tragedy, so far, had not touched her. Laura was sure of that.
    Matt came only a few moments later. The buzzer sounded sharply and she ran to open the door. His coat was flung over his shoulders; his black hair was damp from the fog, his Irish blue eyes were blazing in a white face. “I came as soon as I could.”
    “What have they done?”
    “You look— Wait.” He dropped his coat over a chair and went back to the kitchen. She followed him and watched as he got ice from the refrigerator and glasses from the cupboard. He knew where she kept her small supply of whiskey and poured a generous amount into each glass, filling it up with water. “Here,” he said, “take this. Drink it.” He put the glass in her hand and led the way to the living room. “Sit down there.”
    She sank down into a deep lounge chair, with its sage-green upholstery which she had chosen so carefully so the room would be all grays and greens; gray rug, soft gray walls, green chairs, gay primrose-yellow curtains, and bright splashes of yellow and green and blue in the patterned cover for the sofa. It was a charming, a warm and pleasant room; a few old pieces of gleaming, dark wood gave it dignity and grace. It was not a room in which to talk of murder.
    “What did you do?” Laura asked.
    “I reported it to the police, of course. Then I drove out to Koska Street. They were

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